


The Beast Inside Now Be Woken

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Series: Teacups & Time [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dream World, First Kiss, French Kissing, Gun Violence, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Stabbing, Temporary Alternate World, canon events, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: "We couldn’t leave without you."An alternate take on the ending of Mizumono/prelude to Antipasto.





	The Beast Inside Now Be Woken

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Immortalized" by Disturbed.

_ You were supposed to leave. _

_ We couldn’t leave without you _ .

The gun trembled in his hand as Will finished turning, already lowering out of a position to endanger. His eyes remained locked on Hannibal’s as the older man stepped in closer, both of them ignoring the broad blood stain smeared across his rumpled white shirt. Hannibal’s hand rose to cradle his face, and Will did not recoil, his lips parting in a soundless whimper.

“We can go now, though.” Abigail’s voice cut through the quiet between them, and Will blinked, losing his laser-like focus. Hannibal’s eyes cut past him, toward the teenager, and she continued, emboldened at not being cut off. “We can leave, now, right? Will--he’s here. We can...we can leave. The country. All three of us, together.”

Hannibal’s gaze returned to Will’s. “Can we? Is that what is going to happen, Will?”

The younger man exhaled shallowly, his weight swaying forward and then back, and then forward again. Only Hannibal’s fingers curved gently against his cheek kept him from tumbling too far into him, feeling the warmth of Hannibal’s breath against his lips. “It’s supposed to.”

“Then it shall.” Hannibal dropped his hand, turning away, and he set the small blade that he had held on the countertop, the kitchen lights glittering off of the steel, and the blood droplets that clung to it. “Abigail...are you packed?”

She nodded; Will saw the motion of it in his peripheral, and he turned to look back at her, surprised to see that her face showed relief, and even something ghosting close to a smile. Without another word, she turned and slipped back into the hallway toward the stairs. Knowing that she had a room here, had somewhere to slink back to in order to collect her things, made Will’s heart sting as he watched her disappear.

“I am sorry,” Hannibal said quietly, and Will looked back at him, raising his eyebrows in question. “I would have greatly preferred not to conceal her from you,” the older man clarified. “In the immediate aftermath of you believing her to be dead, there was no way of doing otherwise, and...since then, I had to wait. Until...I knew.”

“Until I agreed to go, too,” Will whispered, and received a short nod. “You know I would agree, though, why--”

“I knew that you wanted to agree,” Hannibal corrected him. “I know, of course, that what I am offering--what Abigail and I will give you, now--was what you wanted above the life that you have here, under Jack’s rule.” He shrugged, beginning to unbutton his bloody shirt and removing it, wiping the gore from his hands on the soiled fabric. “But Jack was pressing from the other end--or perhaps pulling is the more accurate term--and I did not know with certainty that you would not...buckle, and be drawn back in on his fishing line.”

Will’s lip curled derisively. “I was the fisherman. Jack intended to hold the net.”

Hannibal looked past Will again, and Will didn’t need to follow his gaze to know that he was looking at the blood that was still spreading from beneath the pantry door. He had no idea of Jack was alive or not, behind the dark wooden barrier. If he was listening to them in horror, or too far gone to even realize that Will was ten feet from him.

“I have nothing with me,” Will said, looking down at his own rain- and blood-spattered state. Alana’s blood was on his palms and up to his wrists, and there wasn’t a dry inch of material left in his shirt.

“I have things for us both,” Hannibal replied, moving behind the kitchen island and re-emerging with two shirts. “And when we have settled, we will obtain whatever we need.”

“Where are we settling?” Will asked, curiosity overcoming fear as he placed the borrowed gun beside Hannibal’s knife, and began stripping off his own soaked shirt, as well. He accepted the one that was handed to him, sliding it on and finding with surprise--and a touch of pleasure--that it was not quite too large for him. “Do you know, yet?”

“I have several possibilities,” Hannibal replied, also slipping into the clean garment, and then going into the hallway and returning shortly after with two coats. Will pulled his on obediently, feeling strangely like one of his dogs, following eagerly in anticipation of being taken on their daily run. “As of now, I believe that Paris or Venice would be my first choice.”

Will looked back toward the pantry, wary, but Hannibal merely shook his head; if Jack was conscious, Hannibal was not concerned about being heard. That was sufficient for Will.

Abigail reappeared in the hallways with a backpack over her shoulder, and a compactly rolled-up umbrella in one of her hands. “There are sirens coming closer,” she warned, crossing the room and shifting almost into Hannibal’s shadow. Will watched her movements, wondering if that habit was born out of instinct lingering from her father’s reign of terror, or if it stemmed from the past months of seclusion and isolation that she had suffered within this house.

“Then we must be going,” Hannibal confirmed, and he picked up the blade on the counter, turning to walk toward the front door with no hesitation in his steps. He did not even look back to ensure that they were following.

Abigail looked at Will, and now that same raw uncertainty returned to her eyes, the same as he had seen when he first entered the kitchen and found her waiting for him. “It’s supposed to be this way,” she said, echoing his words, but as a statement rather than a question. And then--“Right?” she added, belaying her own nerves. “You  _ are _ coming, aren’t you? You...you want to?”

Even if he were still panicking, or unsure of his choice; even if Will had believed that he had any other possible option; he didn’t believe for a single moment that he would ever have had the strength to refuse her in that moment.

He reached out, reclaiming Alana’s gun and tucking it safely into the back of his rain-spattered pants before he reached out, drawing her in for a tight embrace. She melted into his hold, and Will felt as if the pain and terror of months spent grieving for her, hating himself for failing her, and frequently nearly believing that he  _ had _ been the one to murder her...it was all bleeding away.

She was alive. His Abigail was alive, safe, and once more in his arms. She was holding out her hand to him, begging him to abandon his fears and regrets and guilt and to choose her--them--and to run away into this bright new unknown at their sides.

“I want to,” he confirmed, breathing the words into her ear. “I won’t...I won’t ever leave you again. I promise.”

Abigail pulled back, her face somehow both apologetic and reproachful. “You didn’t leave me. I know you thought...I know you thought that you’d killed me. He didn’t always explain everything, but he did tell me that.” She reached out, finding his hand with one of hers, and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry that you went through that.”

At the front door, Hannibal’s voice rang out, soft and clear even under the pattering rain. “They are one street over.”

Will swallowed, taking Abigail’s hand more securely and nodding, leading her after him as he moved to follow their leader. “We’re ready.”

* * *  


The change from being Jack Crawford’s prized and feared empathic double-agent, his bloodhound with the mind of a killer...to being a faceless, nameless wanderer, the travel companion of a ghost and her reaper...should not have been as effortless as it was.

Will opened his eyes as the captain’s voice crackled over the speakers, announcing that they would be landing shortly. He shifted, turning his eyes away from the glaring sunlight through the window, toward the other two seats in his row. Beside him, Hannibal was sitting perfectly still, a book open on his knees and his eyes flickering leisurely across the page. Abigail was on his other side, curled to rest her head on his shoulder, eyes closed and face slack in peaceful rest.

“Which home is this?” Will asked softly, his voice raspy from napping.

Hannibal carefully placed his marker in the center of the book, then closed it, turning just his head to meet Will’s eyes as he smiled softly. “Palermo. I do not own the property, however; it is a rented condominium. I come too rarely to justify property investment.”

Abigail shifted as the plane tilted, and Hannibal angled his shoulder to keep her comfortable. Will smiled, pulling his water bottle out of its cupholder and taking a long drink. “Are we going to the Norman Chapel?”

That earned a smile in return, and Hannibal nodded contentedly. “I would very much like to share it with you both, yes.” He reached out unexpectedly, touching Will’s hand, and the younger man stilled in surprise at the abrupt brush of skin on skin. “The condo has a single bedroom. There is one murphy bed, a makeshift corner room, of sorts...but only one.”

Will stared down at where Hannibal’s skin stood in contrast to his own, paler and softer than his own work-roughened hands were. “What is it that you’re proposing?”

“I can find us alternative lodging arrangements, if the existing ones would be...uncomfortable,” Hannibal replied, quieter, not disturbing Abigail as they banked toward the landing strip.

“Long as Abigail doesn’t mind the limited privacy of a ‘makeshift corner room,’” Will said finally, withdrawing his hand and putting the cap back on his water. “We should see about getting some room dividers to put around the bed. A teenage girl needs her own space.” He turned to look back out the window. “One bathroom, too?”

“A master bath off of the bedroom, and a smaller one off of the living room,” Hannibal stated, slowly moving to place his book back into the side pocket of the attache resting at his feet. His motions made Abigail stir, mumbling as the plane arched into its descent, slowly waking her. “She will likely prefer to make the smaller one her own. I certainly do not anticipate us having guests over who might be put off by her personalizing the space.”

“Probably not,” Will agreed, smirking faintly. “They’d have bigger concerns entering your home than just whether there are hair ties on the bathroom counter.”

There was a quiet pause, and then when he spoke, Hannibal’s voice was soft enough that Will almost missed it. “Is it only my home, still? I would think it ours, given the situation.”

Will’s eyes cut back towards him, and he swallowed, folding his hands as the plane made its way down through the air until it struck the runway with a soft shudder. “Our home. Yes.”

* * *

The condo was in a quiet branch of the city, and if they had many neighbors then there wasn’t much sign of them. Hannibal let them in, and Abigail promptly went to the couch, curling into a ball with a yawn and muttering something about jetlag.

Will watched her go, his face softening fondly. “We should see about getting her some false IDs. So she can attend college online, if she wants to.”

Hannibal stepped close behind him, the heat of his body searing Will through his shirt and jacket. “I agree. I will arrange for all of us to have licenses and passports sent here.” Amusement edged into his voice. “Do you have a preference on your new name?”

Will shrugged, moving away from him without making the movement too fast or obvious. “I suppose our last names should match, and hers, too. Being a legal family--her parents--would draw less attention to her living with us.”

He was setting down the travel case that Hannibal had purchased for the small selection of clothing and toiletries that Will had collected so far when the older man spoke, still standing by the door. “If that was a suggestion that you and I present as married, Will, it was possibly the most clinical proposal that I have ever witnessed.”

Only then did Will turn back towards him, and his expression was wry, but neutral. “I was suggesting forged documentation for public image. If I meant it sincerely, you can trust that I’ve have said that a little more...authentically.” He saw the shadow that flickered over Hannibal’s face, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of that response, and Will sighed, picking his bag back up and heading toward the ornate double doors that he assumed led toward the master bedroom. “Just wait, Hannibal. We aren’t there, yet.”

He stayed in the bedroom for the rest of the afternoon, slowly moving his limited possessions to one of the dressers, one side of the frankly ridiculously massive walk-in closet, and to the bathroom cupboards. At one point Will heard Abigail wake up, padding around quietly and speaking softly to Hannibal, but he didn’t try to make out what they were saying.

The sun went down outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Will sat on the edge of the enormous bed, watching it sink out of sight behind the beautiful skyline of Palermo.

Eventually the smell of cooking meat filled the air, and Will raised his eyebrows, standing at last and going to step out of the bedroom. Hannibal and Abigail were in the kitchen with their backs to him, working side by side, and the scents of roasting meat and simmering vegetables filled his nose.

“You had time to grocery shop?” he asked, crossing the room on silent socked feet.

Hannibal chuckled, shaking his head, and Abigail turned to grin at him. “Delivery. I always wanted to do that, have some fancy food store send all the fresh ingredients. Home-cooked food without leaving the house. Best of both worlds.”

Will moved to her side, looking past her shoulder at the cutting board where she was dicing broccoli florets. “What are we having?”

“A simple meal, for our first evening,” Hannibal replied, carefully turning over the strips of steak that were in the pan. Will recognized that scent well enough to be sure that it was, in fact, beef, and not a more questionable kind of meat. “Penne pasta, sirloin steak, broccoli. Light and very filling. Good after excessive stress and travel.”

Will turned around, finding the bottle of wine that he had assumed would be sitting open on the counter, and he poured himself a hearty glass, moving to sit on one of the tall stools on the other side of the marble kitchen island. He sipped slowly, enjoying the rich red flavor, watching his companions as they cooked together. Abigail looked at ease, alive and bright-eyed, like she had been toward the end, back before he had believed in her murder.

They ate their supper with amiable small talk, and Hannibal mentioned Will’s suggestion of room dividers for Abigail, which she approved of. When the food had been consumed and the dishes washed and put away, Will helped Abigail rearrange the corner of the living room and set up her bed, and then he left her curled under the duvet with the television playing quietly. Impulsively, Will leaned down and kissed her forehead before walking away, and she smiled up at him, eyes filled with happiness. “Night, Will.”

He smiled back at her, feeling his heart stretch around a slowly blooming sense of security. “Goodnight.”

When he entered the bedroom again, Will found Hannibal standing by the window, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. The older man didn’t turn around, and Will said nothing, going to his own dresser and stripping out of his button-down and jeans. Left in his preferred boxers and t-shirt, Will went to the bed, sliding under the sheets, still without a word.

Hannibal turned around then, and he tilted his head, seemingly evaluating the view of Will curled on his side with his back towards the other man.

When the bed dipped, Will waited until the motions of Hannibal settling in stopped, and then he rolled over, coming to rest on his right side with his left arm crossing his chest, his hand beneath his cheek, eyes finding Hannibal’s in the dimly lit room. One lamp was still glowing, not at full strength, and the shadows it cast on Hannibal’s face gave him a fitting, faintly inhuman appearance.

Hannibal did not move, staring back at him silently, and finally Will moved his other hand, fingers sliding over the silk until they rested between the two men, spread and waiting in unspoken invitation.

He watched the way the older man’s eyes shifted from his face to his hand, processing, and then Hannibal blinked, as if accepting that Will was not trying to deceive him. His right hand moved to meet Will’s, fingers sliding between until they were interwoven, and Will relaxed the rest of the way, his offer accepted and the forgiveness finally mutual.

Will had thought that he was pleasantly exhausted, and that after a solid meal he would slip right off into sleep, now that they were safe. But the minute Hannibal’s hand touched his own, it was as if electric energy had flowed from the older man’s body into his own through that one small point of contact, and suddenly, Will was very, very awake.

And better yet, he knew that he was awake. This was no dream.

He didn’t know who moved forward first, or if they both did, or if one moved and the other responded immediately. It really didn’t matter. Between one heartbeat and the next, just staring back at the other man with their hands linked tight was not enough, and when their lips met, Will felt any lingering smudges of doubt or fear in his soul fly away, scrubbed clean by the complete and utter rightness of Hannibal’s mouth pressing against his own.

His lips parted of their own accord, and Hannibal accepted readily, his tongue slipping in to taste the younger man hungrily. Will wondered if he tasted sweeter with arousal and exhilaration, now. If the bitterness of all his past terror had finally faded.

It was startling to realize abruptly that he was flat on his back, and Will gasped when Hannibal rolled with him--or perhaps he was rolling them both, pushing Will to where he wanted him--and then the older man was above him. Their right hands were still linked, but in this position that was suddenly a barrier, not a bond. Will broke the hold, but he didn’t even need to whine before Hannibal’s other hand found his, and suddenly his wrists were pinned to the mattress.

Will blinked, refocusing, and his gaze slid down, a blush staining his cheeks as he registered that Hannibal had not donned another shirt to sleep in. It wasn’t as if Will hadn’t been aware of the strength in Hannibal’s body--fuck, he had seen the man fight, and he had seen him survive repeatedly, even against opponents who Will would have assumed would be victorious. The pristine suits of a psychiatrist had not always concealed the raw force of the man beneath.

But it was entirely different to know of someone’s strength in theory, than to have that very strength be exposed to you so viscerally, restraining you, muscles flexed and skin glowing in the lamplight of the one light in the room, and the streetlights blow shining up into the windows.

He looked back up, finding Hannibal watching him just as intently, waiting for Will to indicate if this was continuing, or if he was spooked out of the heat of the moment.

Will answered by surging upward--he made no effort to free his hands, he didn’t want them freed, and he wouldn’t have succeeded even if he had desired it--and Hannibal welcomed the movement, letting Will kiss him again, returning it with a banked savagery that pushed Will back down into the bedding under its force. This kiss was sharper and more directional, purposeful, Hannibal’s confidence in his victory showing through as his tongue plundered Will’s mouth, lapping behind his teeth and seducing the younger man’s own tongue into dancing with his.

The volume of the television in the next room rose slightly, and Will froze, only then remembering their adopted daughter lying ten yards from them. “Shit--Abigail--”

“Abigail is going to endeavor to minimize her ability to hear anything behind this door,” Hannibal replied, his voice both smug and deeply assertive, as if he were willing the information into Will’s mind, driving him to believe it. “When you were in here alone earlier, and she woke from her rest, she and I discussed this. She insisted that I not allow her presence to dissuade either of us from this inevitability.”

Will blinked, parsing through that statement, and his face reddened. “She gave us permission to--to fucking consummate  _ with her here _ ?”

Hannibal’s return smile was unbearably amused, and Will wanted to bite it right off of his mouth. “Interesting word choice; but yes, she indicated quite firmly that she wants us to pursue one another without concern for her embarrassment. We are her fathers, after all,” he added, surprisingly softer, and Will lost track of his burning feeling of exposure as he looked back at the older man’s face, taking in the hint of vulnerability that had suddenly appeared in the midst of all the arrogance.

“We are,” he conceded, nearly a whisper, and the confirmation banished that flash of uncertainty in Hannibal’s pale gaze. Will sighed, his head sinking back into the soft padding of the pillows. “You still think I’m going to panic and bolt, don’t you.”

Hannibal shook his head, leaning in to kiss Will’s lips once more, lightly, as if apologizing. His grip on WIll’s wrists had slackened, more of a caress than a restraint now. “I know you won’t. But I fear you withdrawing from me emotionally, again. Just as I did after Randall Tier’s death.”

Will snorted, and he broke free with his right hand, lifting it to cup Hannibal’s face just as the older man had done to him when they were standing in his kitchen a day before, Jack bleeding out across the room. “I didn’t then, and I won’t now. I chose, remember? I chose my becoming. Just as I’m choosing this. You.”

Hannibal’s eyes seemed to begin to glow, and not for the first time, Will wondered about Dr. Du Maurier’s phrase for Hannibal’s humanity--his  _ person suit.  _ If that dark spark in his gaze, now, was the most genuine that Will would ever see in him.

“Are you mine, Will?” Hannibal asked softly, and Will couldn’t have torn his gaze away from the gleaming embers of the man’s eyes, locked on his face, to save his own life.

“I am,” he confirmed, and Hannibal’s smile was blinding before he leaned down, molding their mouths together once more. Will’s hand slid into his hair with the motion, and then slowly down his neck and over the hard flex of his shoulder, feeling the sheer power in the body above his own, and the heat that radiated from Hannibal as he slowly consumed Will entirely.

* * *

Will woke with a shocking spike of pain in his stomach, his eyes flying open and his cry of surprise and agony choked off by the incubation tube in his throat. His hands scrambled at the hose, clawing until he forced the device out of his mouth again. He started to sit up, confused and alarmed and ready to call out for Hannibal--and the surge of pain in his belly roared up again, forcing Will to slump back into crisp, starched sheets.

He was not in Palermo.

Will looked around wildly, his eyes wide, and it took a few seconds to realize that it was a hospital room. He was lying in a bed hooked to half a dozen machines, and the heart monitor was panicking on his behalf.

Light filled the space, and a nurse entered, looking bewildered. “You’re awake,” she said, sounding strangled. “We--didn’t expect you to wake up anytime soon. Here, please, Mr. Graham, stop thrashing. Please, calm down, you’ll tear your stitches.”

Will struggled to still himself, letting her push him back into the pillows, and when her words penetrated the fog in his brain, Will looked down, shoving at the scratchy sheet until he could expose his stomach. Until he could see the large white patch of gauze taped over his abdomen, a line of pink appearing from where the aforementioned stitches were straining from his rough movements.

His eyes sank closed against the visual, struggling to remember.

_ We couldn’t leave without you _ .

_ Hannibal had stepped closer, reaching out to cup his face. Abigail was behind him now, her breath labored and whimpering. Will was frozen, the gun dropped to his side, defenseless and unprepared. _

_ He saw the knife flash, but it was buried in his side before Will could cognitively register that it was coming towards him. Lightning exploded in his entire body, and Will buckled, his cry aborted as he dropped the gun, hands flying to grab Hannibal’s shoulders desperately, clutching him as the older man held him, embraced him, supported him in his fall. _

_ Hannibal had killed him. And then he had killed Abigail, again. _

Will shuddered, re-opening his eyes. “Ab-Abigail Hobbs.” He knew, he remembered, he had seen. The black bag loaded onto a gurney beside his own, her face cold and still, the zipper closed over her forever. Will knew, but he needed to hear.

The nurse shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Graham, she died at the scene.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I shouldn’t say so, but if it helps--Agent Crawford survived. He’s also in recovery.”

Jack was alive. Abigail was dead, perhaps Alana was as well, and Will was dead in any way that mattered. But Jack was alive.

“Alana Bloom,” he managed. “She--she was there, too.”

The nurse nodded now. “She--she’s also in recovery. The--she fell.” When Will nodded, knowing that part, she continued. “Her back was damaged, but she is going to regain function. She will have some lasting damage, though.”

Will tipped his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling. He had lost Abigail again--lost his family. The dream he had constructed where he had not frozen, where he hadn’t failed--failed Hannibal, failed Abigail, failed his own longings--faded from his memory, just like the sun had faded from the sky before his dream imploded.

_ Palermo _ .

He was dead. But he was here. And Will knew, as clearly as if the man was standing at his bedside, taking his hand and asking if he was going to make it up to him, that he would have to go after Hannibal.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to do a seemingly happy ending, and then go write other things for Hannigram that likely wouldn't have Abigail, but then I realized that I could pull a Bryan Fuller and yank the happy ending out from under y'all. :D Next I will jump to another faaaavorite Hanni moment....in the tombs, in Primavera. :D


End file.
